


Grief Consumes

by Meraad



Series: The Disaster that is Evelyn Trevelyan [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Self-Loathing, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 22:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17374604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meraad/pseuds/Meraad
Summary: Evelyn Trevelyan and Blackwall meet again in the Hinterlands. It is not a happy occasion.





	Grief Consumes

**Author's Note:**

> The tags and warnings are precationary - brief moments and mentions - but they are there nonetheless.

Evelyn didn’t leave the Hinterlands as she had planned to. She’d had her bag packed, was getting what little supplies a man with a cart had to offer when she’d heard the wailing. A child. A little girl, no older than Isaak was the last time she saw him, screaming as she clung to the corpse of a man Evelyn later found to be her father. The man was no soldier, a simple farmer, but with the conflict between the Templars and the Mages and the rifts and the demons, he’d gone out to fight. His entire group had been slaughtered.

So she lingered in the Hinterlands, angry that she hadn’t just left as she stared down a rift on the edge of a cliff. _Mama, you can’t just let them die_. Isaak’s voice a whisper in her ear.

“And who helped you? Huh? Who protected _you_ from the monsters who would see everyone dead? No one!” she snarled. No, her baby boy, the only good thing she’d ever created, had been killed and tossed aside like so much debris.

 _Mama_ , it was a gentle whisper, chiding and suddenly Evelyn was blinded by tears as she struggled to stay upright when the grief wanted to tear her down.

_Failure. You’re a failure. Where were you when he was screaming, crying for his mother to come save them?_

She caught sight of movement out of the corner of her eye. Saw Isaak. Saw the Qunari who more than dwarfed her son swing the broad ax in a wide arc. Evelyn screamed. Blood sprayed and she lunged forward, tripped, fell hard. _Demons. The Rift_. She tried to remind herself and banish the image. _Kill the fucking demons!_ She screamed again, but this time in rage, and launched herself at the next thing that moved.

Her blade sunk into Alex’s chest. Horror froze her in her place, then the image of Alex was gone and the terror demon jerked and spasmed. Evelyn could feel the pull of the rift on her hand. She didn’t understand it, couldn’t figure out _how_ it worked, but it did, so she held her hand up, and willed the rift to close.

It shrunk a fraction of a bit with a concussive explosion that froze the few demons in place. _Despair_. She launched herself at it. “How dare you use his face!” It was a scream as she slammed her shield into it, sending it reeling backward. She felt the cold chill of its fingers reaching for her, but she wouldn’t allow it into her mind again. _Never again_. Her blade cleaved its head from its body.

Claws raked across her back, tore at fabric and flesh. She screamed, whirled around, but the demon was gone. Gasping for breath she spun again, knowing it couldn’t have gone far. It wasn’t done with her. It materialized beneath her feet, knocking her onto her back so hard the air left her lungs with a whoosh. It slashed at her again, from shoulder to hip. The pain was blinding.

Her sword had slipped from her fingers as she fell and now it lay too far from her reach. She stared up at the demon as it leaned down, closer and closer, hideous features and a gaping maw that spewed hot, foul breath into her face.

Turning her left hand upward, she hoped she was close enough. She felt the pull of the rift, felt the stabbing pain up her arm as she tried to close it. The demon let out a cry of pain and Evelyn stared blindly up at the clear blue sky. It seemed unfair that the sky would be so pretty when the world around her was crumbling.

“My lady! Evelyn!” She heard the voice as if from a great distance, then a heartbeat later a face hovered over hers. No longer the terrifying visage of the demon, but this one was no more welcome than the other. Blackwall leaned over her and she gave into the creeping darkness and hoped that maybe she wouldn’t wake up.

Blackwall had heard the fighting and the screaming and as he’d quickened his pace over the hill, he’d fully expected to find half a dozen soldiers fighting the rift. Not one lone woman whose grief was palpable. He struck the killing blow of the final demon and then went to his knees over her. “My lady! Evelyn!” She met his gaze for a moment and she looked less than happy to see him, then her eyes had glazed over before slipping shut.

After looking her over quickly, he cursed and carefully lifted her into his arms. Her head lolled against his chest and he set out on the long walk to the small cabin he kept by the lake. The green mark on her hand sparked and flickered and he wondered at what he’d seen. She’d closed the rift. With the mark on her hand. Who exactly was this woman?

When they reached the cabin, Blackwall made quick work of setting her on the bed and stripping her out of the ruined tunic and coat. The gashes on her back were far deeper than the ones she bore on her chest, but the latter were long and wide. He gathered what little healing supplies he had and put a pot of water on to boil so he could properly clean her wounds. Blackwall took care as he cleaned the wounds, stitched the worst ones shut, slathered them in the best healing salve he had, before bandaging them and tugging one of his tunics over her head.

She hadn’t stirred a bit, not even when he’d sewn shut the gash across her left breast. There was nothing left for him to do. Evelyn would either wake, or she wouldn’t. In the days that passed, Evelyn had nightmares that Blackwall couldn’t rouse her from as fever coursed through her body. He’d done his best, sent for a healing tonic, and slowly dripped the concoction down her throat until she’d taken the entire thing. He strongly believed that she was not going to thank him for his efforts if she ever woke. But he couldn’t just let her die, especially not after what he saw.

She’d closed a rift. With the mark on her hand. Who exactly was this woman? He scratched his jaw beneath his beard and sighed. Nothing he could do except wait. Blackwall crossed to the fire, sat down in the hard wooden chair nearby and rested his chin on his chest. It wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but he’d slept in worse conditions. He’d only just begun to doze off when he heard the heavy thud, followed by a soft cry. He bolted upright, crossed the small cabin to where the small bed was and found Evelyn on the floor on her hands and knees.

“Evelyn,” he said softly, reaching out to her. His hand grazed her back and she swung her hand out, batting him away.

“Get away from me. Get away. What the … fuck?” she gasped out, using the bed to pull herself back up. “Where the fuck am I?”

Blackwall crouched down in front of her but was careful not to touch her. “My cabin, do you remember what happened? The demons, the rift,” he shot a glance at her hand. She sat perfectly still for a moment, then he watched as she curled her left hand into a fist and drew it up against her belly. “You were hurt.”

“Why? Why did you have to save me?”

He shouldn’t have been startled by the words, but the anguish in her voice struck a chord with him. He’d felt the same way many times before. Death would be the only peace. But he didn’t deserve to die, not yet, not until he’d done more to make up for the crimes he’d committed.

Her right hand lifted, reached for her throat, and he saw the fear flash in her eyes before her face fell into a mask of rage. “Where is it!?” she shouted, though her voice came out a croak of sound.

“What?” he asked, brow knitting together.

“My locket! You bastard! Where is it!” She shoved him and he tumbled back onto his ass, then she was scrambling for the door. By the time Blackwall got up and followed her, she was on her hands and knees again, crawling as she sobbed, violent gut-wrenching sobs. He went to her, scooped her up and it was obvious the fever and her injuries had taken their toll because though she thrashed and struck out at him, he easily corralled her back into the house.

Blackwall deposited her on the bed, then held her arms at her sides. “Stop it,” he commanded and her upper lip curled. She tried to kick him in the balls, but he shifted his knee just in time and blocked it. “I said, stop it. Tell me about the locket.” Tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked and it tugged at his heart. “What does it look like?” he asked, gentling his voice. “I’ll go find it. The chain probably broke when the terror demon tried to gut you like a fish.”

Evelyn sniffed, jerked against him, but he wasn’t releasing her yet, not until he knew she wasn’t going to punch him. “Oval. Silverite.” she looked down at her hand, traced a small oval on her palm. “This big.”

“I’ll go find it,” he repeated. “Just… stay here. Try to rest. Eat something if you can.” Then he stood up, tugged on his gambeson and because the Hinterlands weren’t safe, he took his sword and shield and a torch before heading out.

The sun was just beginning to crest over the horizon when Blackwall reached the place he’d found Evelyn days before. The area had been trampled, by horses and heavy boots. He rubbed his mouth and could imagine her reaction if he returned without the locket. _Well, if I can’t find it, I won’t go back,_ he thought. Blackwall searched the area. Searched it again. Realized it had likely been picked up by some passing stranger, but searched again. The sun was high in the sky when he hung his head with regret.

He reached up and scratched his eyebrow as he turned to begin heading back to the cabin. A glint of something caught his eye and his heart skipped a beat. The odds of it being the locket were slim to none. It was probably just a rock. A trampled on mug. He crossed the field, sunk down to his knees and carefully pushed away the dirt and grass.

A locket. Small and silverite, the delicate chain broken but still dangling from it. He rubbed the dirt from it on his breeches, rubbed it until it shone like new, then carefully opened the little clasp and looked at the two tiny portraits inside. A man, with a curly mop of red hair, and a child, hair darker, but with the same wild curls as the man’s.

Blackwall made the trek back to the cabin, all the while wondering about the Evelyn, about how full of rage she was. He assumed the two in the locket were her family and he wondered about them and what had happened to them. The mark on her hand.

When he finally pushed open the door to the cabin, he found her, breathing labored as she tried to pull on her boots. Sweat dripped from her brow and blood had soaked through the bandages and his tunic she still wore. Evelyn’s head jerked up and she looked at him, the hopeful expression on her face softened out her features. “Did you-” she staggered up to her feet, lurched forward and Blackwall barely caught her before she fell.

He pressed the locket into the palm of her hand and a sob escaped her as she clutched it to her chest. He swept her off her feet and could feel the heat through her clothes, the fever had returned. Blackwall carried her back to the bed where he set her down and began tugging at her half laced boots. “Fuck you- don’t touch-” she tried to kick him, but she was even weaker than she’d been earlier.

“Shut up and lay back down,” he snapped at her, she looked surprised for a moment then her eyes narrowed.

“Asshole,” Evelyn muttered but didn’t resist when he pressed her back onto the bed. Though when he tugged the tunic up she slapped him.

Blackwall caught her wrists easily, then leaned down, his face inches from hers. “You tore out your stitches and you’re bleeding. I’m also willing to bet, judging by the fever, that it’s infected. Do you want me to just let you die?”

Evelyn blinked slowly, then she nodded. “Yes.”

Hearing her actually say it sent him reeling. “Well, too bad,” he groused and set to tending to her wounds again. She didn’t argue, just closed her eyes, her hand clutching the locket next to her cheek. “It’s up to the Maker now,” he muttered.

“Fuck the Maker,” she mumbled. “Fuck the Maker and the Chantry, Andraste and the fucking Inquisition.”

Blackwall finished his work and Evelyn slept, and he was left with more questions than he’d had before.


End file.
